


Right or Left

by Violetwylde



Series: Martin RPF [1]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bulge Appreciation, F/M, Face-Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 13:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17204168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: Answering the burning question: Does Martin dress to the right or left?





	Right or Left

He writes with his left, but plays table tennis with his right. He’s apt to flip you off with either hand, sometimes both if he’s feeling cheeky. It makes you wonder what other ways he may be ambidextrous.

Would he be more likely to slip his left hand under your knickers? Let the tip of his left middle finger circle the eager nub of your clit.   


Would he roll your hard nipple between his right index finger and thumb? Plucking at you until you’re near sobbing.   


The questions swirl in your mind to the beat of your pulse. A pulse that quickens when he slides a glance your way. You bite your lip and look down, playing coy. You know he likes a bit of a chase.   


He leans his elbow on the bar and angles his body toward you. The warm golden glow of the surrounding lights diffuses his edges and makes his eyes shine. He doesn’t look away from you as he brings his glass to his lips and take a slow sip of something honey-colored.   


His gaze is too hot, too heady, but you can’t look away from him. You let your eyes wander down his body instead, admiring the gentle taper of his torso in his pale blue shirt, and his dark, slim cut trousers. You make one appraising circuit from head to toe and as your gaze drifts back up, it’s snared by the play of soft light across the front of his slacks.   


There’s a distortion, a thick line listing just left of midline. It could be a trick of the light, a coincidental combination of highlight and shadow. But there’s a quality to it, a heaviness that speaks to something solid.   


And then it hits you… He dresses himself like a righty.   
  
He saunters over, there’s no other way to describe the swagger to his hips as he walks—all quiet self-assurance and thrumming sexual energy. “See something you like?”   


You swallow hard, eyes wide with embarrassment at being caught staring. But embarrassment can’t stop you from nodding.   


“Yeah?”   


“Yes.” And good God, when did your voice get so husky?   


“Care to get a closer look?”   


The next few minutes are a blur as he takes you by the hand and escorts you to the back of the bar, down a short hallway, and into a private room. It’s quiet in here—the sounds of the bar muted to a background sibilance. The lighting is little more than smoldering embers in brass-trimmed wall sconces.   


“Hard to see anything in here,” you say, an observation and a quip rolled into one.   


He turns and crowds you into the door, a teasing hum rumbling in his throat. “Well then, maybe this will help.”   


His fingers wrap around your wrist, guide your hand. Your palm cups the front of his trousers, feels the heat radiating between his legs. Your breath quivers out from between your lips, carrying the softest moan of revelation.   


Against your hand is the not-all-together-flaccid contour of his cock. You splay your fingers and shift down, following the bulge along the left inseam until the tips curl in around the head. You squeeze him—because, honestly, how could you not?—and he makes a delicious sound, like a moan punching out from deep in his chest. He cock throbs behind fine wool and you feel the barest hint of moisture seeping through.   


He presses in closer, cants his hips in blatant invitation. His body is warm and his scent is cool, and you’re dizzy the realization that you’re actually doing this. You’re stroking his hardening prick through his bespoke trousers, absolutely ruining the clean lines of their cut.   


Stubble rasps against your cheek as he puts his mouth against your ear and whispers, “You like it?”   


Your answering _yeah_ is barely more than a breath, but your hand is bold in response—curving around the thick length and pumping.   


He pulls back with a hiss and begins to fumble with his belt and fly. You reach out to still his hands and his eyes shoot up to yours, blazing in the low light. You don’t say a word, but return the heated gaze as you slowly unfasten the buttons and lower the zip.   


When you reach inside the open placket, your fingers find bare skin and coarse hair. “No pants,” you say. It’s a playful admonishment.   


Wrapping your fingers around the root of his cock, you flip positions. Now he’s the one pressed up against the door, wide-eyed and breathing shallow. You pull him up and out, giving yourself full access to his prick which now juts lewdly away from his body. You circle your left finger and thumb around the base and trace up the length with your right. You close your eyes—can’t hardly see anyway—and imagine the cock your fingers are transcribing: velvet smooth skin with only a few rolling veins, a thick belly in the middle of the shaft, a fat head sheathed by generous foreskin, which you tease back to reveal a flaring ridge that tapers into a blunt tip. It’s a beautiful specimen—worth dropping to your knees. So you do.   


“Oh shit,” he murmurs as you tug his trousers down his thighs and push his shirt up his belly.   


Eye-to-eye now, you can see he’s every bit as gorgeous as you imagined. You only wish the lights were a bit brighter, so you could see the flush of his skin—to know the precise shade of red that head turns when it’s leaking like a sieve.   


You start slow, pumping him in long, languorous strokes that pull his foreskin up over the tip, then stetch it back behind the crown. Wetness begins to gleam at his slit, a fat drop of precome glistening like a dismond in the dim amber light. It’s welling, clinging to his slit but growing heavier by the second. It’s going to drip down soon—maybe get caught in suspension lIke a thick honey drizzle, maybe fall to the ground to leave an indelible mark on the dark hardwood. Or maybe it will crash on to your tongue and burst with a bitter tang across your taste buds.   


Your eyes lock on his as you bend down lower and tilt your face up, mouth open and tongue eagerly extended. You squeeze him, milk him, and hold your breath in anticipation.   


It drips like clear treacle, slides over the tip of your tongue and fills your pallet with sharp, animal brine. The taste ignites something base inside you. Suddenly, you’re ravenous and his cock is a feast.   


You follow the trail of precome to its source and wrap your lips around the tip, suckling until he starts to whimper—an anguished chant of _fuck_ , _fuck_ , _ohhh_ _fffuuuck_. God, he’s delicious—the taste of him, the sounds he makes, the little shoves of his hips as he seeks more. You pull back and tease him with your tongue—laving over the head and dipping into the slit—while your hand strokes him from the root, pulling his foreskin up to cover his head and the pointed tip of your tongue. It’s a tight fit as you swirl your tongue around, slide it between the silken sleeve of skin and the plump head. You form a seal with your mouth, give the tip of his cock a sloppy, filthy kiss.   


“Christ,” he groans, pounding his fist into the door.   


You look up at him again, but instead if meeting his hungry eyes, you see his head tilted back and mouth hanging open. You take pity on him, pulling off to give him slow strokes and bring him back from the edge.  He sighs a shuddering breath, looks down. And there’s the lust-drunk, dazed expression you’d been looking for. He reaches out, runs his fingers through your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear.   


“Thoughts?” He rasps.   


“Gorgeous,” you answer. And because you’re being honest, you add, “I’d really like to know what it’d be like to choke on it.”   


His eyes go wide with surprise and a grim tugs at the corners if his mouth. “Well. I’m certainly not going to stop you.”   


You hold eye contact for as long as you can, as you part your lips and take him into your mouth. But when the fat head of his cock nestles against the back of your throat you can’t help but let your eyelids flutter closed. Your nose presses into dark, springy curls and you inhale the warm musk of him.   


Your jaw is stretched to the limit and saliva slips freely from the corner of your mouth. After one more deep breath you swallow and swallow and swallow again, milking his cock with the muscles of your throat. At his strangled sounds of pleasure you open your eyes, blinking past the gathered moisture, and focus on his face—his open, panting mouth and wild, rapacious eyes.   


You pull back halfway—tongue sliding wet and messy along his shaft—then sink back down to the hilt. Again with more force. Then again.   


Your throat is relaxed, your mouth is slack. Your face can take a good fucking. You grab his hands from where they’re balled up at his sides and cup an open palm over each ear—giving him the reins.   


“Fuck,” he groans, and you feel a fresh burst of precome trickle down your tongue.   


His grip is tentative at first, his thrusts shallow. You suck harder and moan around the throbbing length—encouraging him to use your mouth, your throat. He shudders, pushing his hips up off the door as he tugs your head forward—harder and faster, taking his pleasure.   


His moans and curses crescendo, until they block out the lewd slurping and sucking, the sound of you gagging on his prick. “Oh… Fuck. Oh yes. Take it. Take my cock. Uhn… God yes. _Yes_.”   


He yanks your hair until your scalp stings and tears are welling up in your eyes. His cock presses against the back of your throat until you’re choking on his fat head.   


His rhythm is growing erratic, his breath coming out in hard pants. He clutches at your hair, pumping into your mouth with viscous snaps of his hips. You can feel him thicken, grow just that much harder against your tongue, and you bury your face into the thick, coarse hair at the base of his cock.   


With one last growl of pleasure he begins to spurt, hot and thick down your throat. You swallow and swallow, but still come dribbles down out of the corners of your mouth. The pulses slow to a trickle and you pull back to suck him clean, to savor the last few drops of his bittersweet spunk.   


He slumps back against the door, his hands turning gentle as he strokes his fingers through your hair. You sit back on your heels, letting his softening cock slip from your mouth.   


With a smile curling the corners of your mouth you tuck him back into his trousers, making sure to dress him to the left.


End file.
